


Red, Red Planet

by sharkie



Series: Across the Stars [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Old Republic
Genre: Family, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Racism, Torture, Xenophobia, barely, early dark side choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 02:51:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1923975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie/pseuds/sharkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there were two Sith acolytes on Korriban and it turned out they were long-lost siblings, would that be fucked up or what?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red, Red Planet

**Author's Note:**

> The real Sith code: if something interests you, poke it until it explodes in your face, figuratively or otherwise.

“So,” Raelen began, “which way was the wind blowing when your face got stuck in that ridiculous expression?”

As predicted, the Pureblood’s seemingly perpetual scowl dialled up from a 5 to an 8.

“Sorry, do I know you?” he snapped.

“No, but I know you, Cehirse. That’s all that matters.” Raelen leaned against one of the pillars which seemed to conveniently pop up every few steps you took in the Academy. “You’re supposed to be Overseer Tremel’s star acolyte. I've got to admit, I expected someone...taller.” Cehirse growled and began to push his way past her. “I have a warning for you.”

“I strongly advise against threatening me, slave.”

“It’s a literal warning, idiot.” She nodded down the hallway she was currently blocking. “You’ve heard of Vemrin? He and his lackey are waiting for you. They’re planning to politely request that you shove off, then bludgeon your head in.”

“If you know about me, then you know I can handle anything Vemrin throws my way, without your help,” he said, annoyed. "Why are you harassing me with this?”

Because when she'd first heard Cehirse had arrived, she inexplicably felt a tug in the Force, instructing her to meet him. 

“Because a fellow acolyte has a crush on you, and-”

“No, changed my mind. I don’t want to know.” The Warrior headed down the hallway without a second glance at Raelen. “Tell her that I’m absolutely not interested, especially not in one of Harkun’s batch.”

“I never said it was a ‘her’.”

“Then tell _them_ -”

“I never said it was strictly one person.” Cehirse stopped in his tracks and whirled around to face her, scowl turning all the way up to 9.5; any higher might be fatal, but Raelen always did enjoy pushing her luck. “See you later,” she added.

“You’re going to die here. Horribly,” he replied, flatly.

* * *

“Scream, weakling, I want to hear your suffering!” - followed by screams, presumably of suffering. Cehirse stopped dead in his tracks and backpedaled. He could never resist peeking into a good interrogation. 

To his surprise, the slave girl from earlier was still alive and was, in fact, the torturer. Arcs of purple lightning shot from her outstretched palms into the convulsing man shackled to the interrogation table. It looked infuriatingly effortless for her - he could never manage more than a spark. 

“Please, don’t do that again,” Cehirse heard the girl’s victim beg, “I’ll do anything.”

“Entertain me,” Raelen said, casually, “give me a song or something.” He sensed Inquisitor Zyn's delight at her words. 

“Sing? Are you serious?” Jolts of Force Lightning crackled menacingly from the girl’s fingertips.  “I mean, sure! Uh. What should I-?”

“I don’t care. Just make it something cheerful.”

The victim _actually sang_. Whenever Cehirse’s mother had referred to one of her playthings singing she was being facetious, or, he began to suspect in her later years, genuinely mistook screams of pain for music.  This victim did sing, though not very well, forgetting the words, and an awkward silence followed. But it seemed to appease the girl for now. The voices in the interrogation chamber quieted. Figuring the exciting part was over, Cehirse continued on his way.

* * *

In lieu of the trials, Overseer Harkun had started holding Raelen back to do errands. Obviously he still planned on killing her somehow, but there was no point in sending her on dangerous missions only to have her overcome the immeasurable odds and grow in power. Inquisitor Zyn’s approval of her methods had shaken Harkun - Raelen honestly hadn’t expected her special cocktail of pain and reward to be well-received by a seasoned Sith torturer, yet she was still here, still breathing. And poor Alif, though thoroughly traumatized, also remained relatively intact and was now under Zyn’s protection.

Overseer Tremel barely acknowledged her presence. He grunted at her as she relayed Harkun’s message, then dismissed her with a wave of his hand. As she turned to exit, she literally ran into Cehirse.

“Watch your step,” the Pureblood snarled. Raelen glared at him.

“I’ll be sure not to trip over you during my climb to the top,” she whispered. They both tried to shove past each other at the same time and, ironically, both ended up nearly tripping.

“If you’re quite done,” Tremel snapped.

Once she was out of the room, Raelen lingered by the entrance, pressing herself against the wall. Neither the Overseer nor his pupil were observant enough to notice the lack of retreating footsteps outside. The usual followed - lots of ‘yes Master’ and thumping the traditional ways of the Sith. Cehirse predictably fantasized about killing Vemrin. Raelen had, too, but she told herself that at least she was being quiet about it. 

“In a drive for sheer numbers, the criteria for Academy admittance has been relaxed,” Tremel informed the Pureblood. Raelen could hear the Overseer pacing back and forth. “Now, anyone with Force sensitivity is allowed entrance.”

“I was already aware,” Cehirse said curtly, and she smirked with pride at the thought that he might be referring to her.

“Vemrin is mixed blood - the invisible rot eating at the foundation of the Empire,” Tremel spat, “he must not be allowed to advance.”

“So.” There was a reflective pause. “You’re an elitist snob.”

“You say that like it’s a _bad_ thing,” Tremel protested.

Raelen quietly guffawed to herself as she padded back down the hall.

* * *

Acolytes typically received cortosis warblades, but there were training lightsabers available in the practice rooms. Cehirse selected one with a curved hilt, powered it up, weighed it with a sneer of disgust. The Academy’s training sabers were red-illuminated durasteel covered with pelko bug toxins; he ran the blade over his palm and felt an unpleasant tingling. Nobody bothered smuggling these lightsabers out, because even the klor’slugs were more lethal.

Raelen entered silently. If Cehirse hadn’t sensed her, he would’ve been startled by the rummaging noises at the other end of the room; he couldn't help noticing her, because she plagued his connection to the Force each time they were near, like a black hole of sheer willpower. He knew that she underestimated his intelligence - but, then again, there was the possibility that he was underestimating her strength, so they were even. 

“I didn’t think you’d use a melee weapon,” he commented, not deigning to look at her, “I assumed you merely talked at things until they died.”

Raelen quickly grabbed a training saber and ignited it. It was a double-bladed one, Cehirse noted, as he turned to face her; they were visually intimidating, but hard to wield and vulnerable to _sun djem_. He was about to tell her so, to be sporting - then she twirled the lightsaber in an elaborate single-handed flourish. There was no way that complicated move could have come naturally to her.

“That wasn’t too bad,” he praised her grudgingly.

“I’m aware.” She grinned, sharp teeth stark against her red skin. Half of her face and lekku were tattooed now, in black ink, in what appeared to be the beginnings of a geometric Sith pattern. Cehirse took this as a sign that she was fully embracing being Sith, but in his mind, she still had a long way to go.

“Did they teach you how to do that in slave school?” Not his best work, admittedly, though Raelen still laughed.

“Ha, slave school!” She took a few steps forward, head held high. “Don’t presume to know who I am or what I’ve been through.”

“Oh, are you going to cry?” Cehirse mocked her. He used his free hand to Force-pull a second lightsaber from the rack, never taking his eyes off Raelen. “I do love the sound of fresh tears sizzling on an ignited saber.”

“I can beat you,” Raelen said. Her purple eyes seemed to flare at him.

“You’re certainly welcome to keep _talking_ about it.”

Their sabers clashed. Cehirse could easily guess the rhythm of her movements: _One, two. One, two,_ without allowance for variation. He had the advantage of mobility, but he wasn’t used to fighting an opponent whose entire strategy seemed to revolve around defense. He circled her, searching for an opening; whenever he found it, he managed to nick Raelen before she could get her guard up again. Somewhat painful - there would be burns tomorrow - though this was hardly the way to win a duel. 

"Fight me," he demanded. "Don't just parry like you're allergic to victory." Raelen let out an almost feral growl in response. His movements became bolder. He tried to enter her mind, and felt her trying to invade his in return. Sparks of Force lightning frequently discharged from her lightsaber, stinging his skin, which only served to irritate him. 

"Defend yourself," she countered. "Don't just come at me again and again like a rabid kath hound." 

"I'm defending," he insisted. There was an opening - he lunged for it, barely missed Raelen’s wrist but managed to cleave her lightsaber into half…right when she dropped the remnants of her weapon and blasted him with as much Force lightning as she could conjure. Cehirse's lightsabers clattered to the floor. It  _hurt_. He could count on one hand the number of times that he'd felt as furious, humiliated, and _alive_ as in this moment. He took some comfort in the knowledge that he'd gotten to her, too, because Raelen was panting from exertion. She didn't even gloat when the lightning finally stopped, though he could sense how badly she wanted to. 

Before she left the room, Cehirse summoned the strength to pull a lightsaber to him. He powered it up, wincing, as he staggered to his feet. 

“Never turn your back on an opponent," he murmured. He wasn't foolish enough to prolong their duel, but wounded pride dictated that he at least try to get the last word in. Raelen halted, as if contemplating. Then she kept walking without so much as a second glance back.

“Fool,” she hissed, “what am I supposed to do? There are opponents everywhere.”

* * *

The next day, Raelen found herself alone in the Academy’s cantina. Usually, she stayed with the rest of Overseer Harkun’s charges, but as of today she and Ffon Althe were the sole survivors. It was too bad. Their company hadn’t been terrible, since they’d all quickly bonded over their mutual hatred of Harkun and the crushing inevitability of their deaths.

She picked up her tray, and the crowd of Academy personnel and acolytes parted as she walked. They were either scared of or repulsed by her - it was probably a combination of both, she reflected, gleefully.

Which was why it was so surprising when Cehirse wordlessly slid into the seat across from her. Minor burns inflicted by her Force lightning remained visible on his hands and face, apparently untreated. She narrowed her eyes at him and prepared to brandish a fork as an impromptu weapon.

“I’m choosing to sit with you,” he explained, as if speaking to a child, “in most societies, this is considered a friendly gesture.”

“Why? You want nothing to do with me. I’m alien scum.”

“Being alien has nothing to do with it,” Cehirse said, charitably, “you’re just scum.”

“It takes one to know one,” Raelen retorted.

“Scum isn’t quantitative. You can’t be ‘a’ scum, you can only _be_ scum.”

“Well, I’m _The_ Scum. Queen Scum. My word is law to all scum.” Raelen made a mental note to print a shirt of that, if she ever managed to leave this damn planet. “Now go away.”

Much to her exasperation, the Warrior didn’t leave. They sat there, glowering, in silence, until it was time to return to training.

* * *

Cehirse began to spend some of his free time with Raelen. Sith were supposed to respect strength, and as unfathomable as it had seemed, she'd proven herself to him. They traded barbs and the occasional snatches of information about their pasts; he learned that the old man Spindrall was the one who applied her Sith tattoos in agonizing daily sessions, that she had a twin sister in Republic space (Jedi, he suspected), and that her enslavement had been recent. Their spars became less physical and more mental. He taught her the second best way to attack with a double-bladed weapon. She taught him the second best way to block Force lightning with a single lightsaber. They weren't exactly friends, but whenever he was given an exceptionally dangerous task, his first thought was about how sad and/or smug she would look standing over his corpse.

One day, a group of lower-level human acolytes intercepted Cehirse on his way to Darth Baras’ office. He recognised two of them as Teeno and Phyne. From what he’d heard of their conversations, Phyne was fairly crafty, and Teeno served as her dumb muscle. He didn’t know any of the rest, but he assumed they clung to the two in the hopes that there would be safety in numbers.

Phyne had a proposal: she and her friends could kill Vemrin on his behalf. ("Get in good with you," as Teeno so eloquently put it.) 

“I’m preserving the pleasure for myself." 

“Far be it for us to rob you of the experience,” Phyne said smoothly, “but consider this: there are rules. Acolytes are not to openly kill one another. Everyone knows of your rivalry. If you kill him, the Lords will presume your guilt-"

"But if Vemrin croaks while you get an alibi, people might be suspicious, but they won't be able to pin it on you, see?" Teeno finished. 

"I don't know. How can I be sure you can pull it off?" Cehirse countered. 

"Let us prove ourselves to you," Phyne suggested. "Spar with us, four-on-one, then decide if we have the skills to benefit you in this endeavor."

“You should be warned: I will not hold back.” The Warrior sized the group up, menacingly. “There _will_ be injuries.”

"Well!" Phyne smiled, bravely. "That's a chance we're willing to take." 

The four humans were dispatched quickly. The fight wasn't even worthy of a description. 

“You still took all four of us apart!" Phyne gasped, clutching her injured arm. Beside her, her friends lay in a groaning heap. Cehirse examined them with a bored expression on his face.  "This changes everything. From what I hear, Vemrin's every bit your physical equal. If we can’t even hold up sparring against you...we’ll never be able to kill him.”

“I agree,” Cehirse said, “you should steer clear of Vemrin. Leave the bloody, terrifically violent executions to me." 

“Well.” Phyne awkwardly scuffed the floor with a foot. “This has been quite a sobering lesson. Thanks for setting us straight." 

The acolytes cleared out, leaving Cehirse in their wake. At some point, Raelen had sneaked into the hallway, likely to see what the commotion was about, as she tended to; she stood there, watching him, her mind unreadable through the Force. He waited for her to speak. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” she observed.

“No, I didn’t.”

“You could’ve thrown them at Vemrin. That's what I would have done," she added, "he’d have defeated them all, easily, but at best they’d wear him down for you, and at worst he’d know that his influence within the Academy is weakening.”

“Yes, I imagine so.”

“Hmm.”  Raelen tilted her head and frowned. "Now, why don't _I_ have random acolytes coming along with offers to murder Ffon for me?"

"Because you're an impersonable witch."

"True." 

A mere two hours later, Overseer Tremel lay dead in his office, and Darth Baras was Cehirse's new master. Tremel’s bloodied signet ring was now on Cehirse’s finger. (“I relished the kill,” he’d claimed, not entirely truthfully. “Good. Savour it. Not every kill will be as meaningful,” Baras replied.) He stared at it for a long time. He didn't understand why it felt heavier than it really was.

* * *

Raelen was in a rare good mood. She’d recovered a legendary irretrievable artifact by doing nothing more than the blindingly obvious, upsetting Harkun more than usual, upstaging Ffon, and earning Zash’s favour in the process. Her facial and lekku tattoos were finished. Today was meatloaf day. She felt invincible.

“Don’t think for one second that this little ritual of ours makes you different,” Raelen informed Cehirse, happily, as they sat together, “that you’re somehow setting yourself apart from the pack by associating with me, the scrappy underdog. You’re as equally prejudiced as they are.”

“Perhaps I am. However, in my mind, you’re not a Twi’lek anymore - you’re Sith.”

“Do I need to give you a history lesson on your own species?” Raelen snapped.

“My late mother was mostly a xenophobic traditionalist,” Cehirse continued, “but her best friend was a Twi’lek Dark Jedi.” He slid his datapad across the table; on it, a holo-picture was open, of two women - a female Pureblood with a passing resemblance to Cehirse, and a purple Twi’lek covered in tattoos similar to Raelen's - grinning and splattered with gore. Their arms were draped over each other’s shoulders. Raelen’s eyes widened. “Yes, I was surprised, too.” She remained silent. “It’s also my understanding that my father was equally close to her.”

Raelen pointed at the Twi’lek.

“That’s my mother,” she said calmly. Cehirse scoffed at her as she fiddled with her own datapad.

“You’re trying to goad me into making some comment which you'll deem offensive.” Now it was Raelen’s turn to slide her personal datapad over to him. She was showing him a different holo-picture, but the women in it looked exactly the same as the ones in his: a Pureblood and a Twi’lek, clad in black, surrounded by carnage.

“What. How.” Cehirse, for once, looked completely taken aback. “In all the galaxy, that we should meet here-”

“The Force works in mysterious ways.” Raelen preened. He glared at her, stared hard at the holo-images, glanced back up at her. He repeated this cycle several times.

“She looks nothing like you,” he finally managed to say. “You don’t even have the same skin colour.”

“That doesn’t indicate much. Do I need to give you a lesson in genetics, too?”

A long, highly uncomfortable silence followed.

“I don’t know what to do with this information,” the Warrior admitted.

“Neither do I. But what do you do with any information?” The Inquisitor shrugged. “You stuff it deep down inside, and keep an eye on it.”


End file.
